


Ghosts in the Machine

by Lady_Ganesh



Series: Streamverse [1]
Category: Saiyuki
Genre: AU, Cyberpunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-18
Updated: 2008-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John re-enters society and the Stream, and meets a cop, his sort-of boyfriend, and a new employer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts in the Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Significant offscreen violence.
> 
> I owe [](http://emungere.livejournal.com/profile)[**emungere**](http://emungere.livejournal.com/) and [](http://andmydog.livejournal.com/profile)[**andmydog**](http://andmydog.livejournal.com/) a thousand thanks for betaing.

Community service beat prison, but not by a hell of a lot. Sure, you got to go to your apartment at the end of the day, but it was still a load of bullshit, and hot as fuck besides. John pushed the sweat out of his eyes and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. They'd given him a little fork to stab garbage with, and boy, was there a hell of a lot of it. John made a mental vow to never litter in a parking garage again, if he ever had a car again to litter from. He bent down to examine something that might have been a dead bird, but turned out to be an extremely battered, wet clump of newspaper. He stabbed it and shoved it into his bag. When he looked up, there was a kid standing in front of him, squinting to see under his cap.

"You John?" The kid had wraparound sunglasses and a battered Yankees cap. He looked about sixteen. "Your parole officer said you were looking for work."

"Did she." It had been pretty obvious what his parole officer thought of him; she'd probably found him a nice gig at the sewage treatment plant. Yeah, he needed a job, but damned if he was gonna act excited about _that._

"You in the Stream?"

"Sometimes." There weren't any sewage treatment plants in the Stream. Well, not that he knew of. "Why?"

"It's deliveries. Pretty steady, though the hours are kinda crazy. It's a pretty good job."

It sounded like a fucking _dream_ job, which made John even more suspicious. "Why me?"

The kid climbed up on the concrete overhang with a loose-limbed, effortless grace and sat, cross-legged, on the top. "You need work. You don't have a family, no girlfriend, just a roommate who sold you out and hasn't been seen in six months. Nobody's gonna complain when you're Streaming out at three in the morning. Nobody's gonna care if you're in your apartment working all weekend. Right?"

Still. "I'm not the only guy like that."

"No, you're not," the kid said. "But you're the only one I know who ended up in County for two to six because someone left you holding their shit."

John stabbed at a deflated condom with his little fork and threw it into the bag.

The kid hopped down from the overhang. "Here," he said, and thrust a card at John. "Tell him Apollo sent you. It's good money."

John hesitated, then took the card. The kid's fingernails were clean. There was a police car going by, a whine of sirens in the distance, and it reminded John of something. "Legal?"

Apollo shrugged. "What's legal in the Stream?"

 

When he got out of work, John grabbed a beer and put his feet up and thought about it.

The first time he hit the Stream, he was seventeen, and Radio told him it would fuck him up good. John had smoked a little grass, but that'd been about it. Radio told him it wasn't anything like that. It was maybe the only true thing Radio'd ever told him. He'd slipped the needle under his skin and he was _gone_ once the interface took over, lost in a pile of sensations and pleasures his dumb teenage brain could barely get a handle on. He'd dropped out of school by then anyway, so he and Radio squeaked by, doing odd jobs or hustling just enough to pay the bills and keep them Streaming.

He should've known back then how much Radio was stealing, and that he wouldn't stop.

He found an apartment he could work maintenance on, and spent most of his time in the Stream. When Radio slid back into his life, he'd paid the apartment off with a lucky weekend at Foxwoods. The next thing John knew, he was on the hook for twenty high-quality, high-demand Stream interfaces and that fucker Radio was sending him signals from Tijuana. They would've let him off with probation, but he wouldn't testify against Radio-- what could he have said? He didn't know shit anyway-- and it boiled down to two to six months in County. He wasn't violent and he wasn't a douchebag, so with good behavior it turned into three months and an ongoing relationship with the ugliest parole officer he'd ever seen. Well, okay, almost the only one he'd ever seen, but she was rock ugly. He half suspected she was related to one of the stone gargoyles outside her building.

He missed the Stream.

He'd need a new interface box; the good one he'd used for a glorious eight weeks had been another of Radio's 'projects', and the remaining box had been a piece of shit to start. A year of operation and months of disuse would make it worse than useless.

Time to start over anyway, probably. Let his handle go bad-- hell, it was probably expired by now. New face, new life, new job.

But first he needed to get on.

He took the subway and hit the store. An interface box with an alarm, so he wouldn't miss community service. Extra batteries. The jumbo package of needles. Astronaut pants. He counted out his funds and had enough for a couple packages of ramen and some vitamin pills.

It wasn't much, but it would be a start.

The paper caught his eye for a second: _New spree killing rocks city._ There'd been two in just over a week, now, people going to their workplaces and taking out everyone in range. The first one had been a postal guy with a knife, but the second had been a woman with a gun. She'd worked at some kind of high-end store; shoes, maybe, he couldn't remember. Weird shit.

He piled the packages by the computer when he got back and got the interface box out. It wasn't as cheap as the one he'd thrown out, but it was still pretty basic. Basic was all he needed for now.

He set up the hardware, booted the system, and sat down on his bed. You had to get into a good position; once you were synced with the Stream, your motor control went to shit. The astronaut pants were a must, too; he slid his jeans and boxers off and pulled them up over his hips. It was hot, so he pulled his shirt off too before he lay down on his back.

He slipped the needle into his arm and felt his body go slack.

 

Bonaparte was rearranging the shop when the door slid open. A newcomer; his avatar was rough and amateurish, probably something taken ready-made from the Entrance. The only mod he'd appeared to make was to his hair, and that was terrible; it was an artificial cherry-red, too bright and garish even for the Stream.

"Yeah," the man said to his disapproving gaze. "I know."

"I'm not sure if this is the establishment you're looking for," Bonaparte said smoothly. "I cater to a rather...specific clientele."

The stranger pushed his terrible hair away from his face, and Bonaparte could see the cheap pixelation. The avatar was a good three years out of date. "Apollo sent me," he said. "Not sure why, now."

Bonaparte wasn't either. "Apollo sent you?"

He looked at the floor, not Bonaparte's face. "Yeah. Said you were hiring. Name's John Carlson, outside the Stream. It's Kers, here."

Apollo had spoken to him about a prospect; _this_ was not what Bonaparte had expected, no matter how much he needed someone to make deliveries. Bonaparte pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I see."

"Look, I know the avatar sucks, okay? I can upgrade if I get work." He was talking more to convince himself than Bonaparte. Bonaparte went back to the desk and called up John Carlson's file.

It was as utterly unremarkable as he'd remembered. The time he'd spent in jail for receiving stolen property did indicate a certain tendency toward silence and loyalty; but how much did that matter, in the Stream? Why had Apollo _sent_ him?

He pulled up the man's picture. He was far more attractive outside the Stream than within it, dark skin, sharp, lean features, bright eyes, sardonic, almost feral grin. Bonaparte hissed air between his teeth for a moment.

"Whatever," Kers said, as Bonaparte continued to stare at the image. "Sorry I wasted your time."

"What did Apollo say?" Bonaparte said, his lips all but moving against his will. "Exactly?"

"He said it was deliveries. Good money." He shifted his weight from one foot to another. "I kinda got the impression you wanted somebody who could keep his mouth shut."

"You're not going anywhere with that avatar," Bonaparte said. "What's your name in the Stream, again?"

"Kers," he said. "The old one timed out."

"I can upgrade you," he said. "For a bit."

Kers nodded slowly. "I get a paycheck, I'll do it myself," he said.

"The money's not _that_ good," Bonaparte said brusquely. "We can consider it your uniform. You'll be paid by the delivery; I can fire you and remove your avatar at will. Is that satisfactory?"

Kers shrugged his shoulders. "It's work."

Bonaparte nodded. "That's enough, I suppose. When can you start?"

"Depends on how long the deliveries take. I got community service in about eight hours."

Bonaparte looked through the list. Some of the clients had been waiting for days. The woman at the top of the list was only a quadrant away, and had been one of the most emphatic complainers. An hour to render a new avatar, another hour for the delivery ... more than enough time. And if Kers wasn't up to the job, better to find out quickly.

"All right," Bonaparte said. "Let's deal with that avatar."

 

John came out of it an hour before his community service was supposed to start, his astronaut pants full of piss and his blood pumping from adrenaline. He sat up on the bed and willed his body to start working again. His joints protested, but he made it to the toilet and the shower.

You could spot a hardcore streamer from ten feet away; skin sallow from too little sunlight, yellow teeth from the chemicals, the smell of piss from guys too busy or buzzed to clean up after spending hours stewing in their own juices. He was damned if he was going to turn into one of _those_ guys. He'd take his vitamins and brush his damn teeth and _shower._ Maybe even get laid out of the Stream once in a while. He'd made eight deliveries, in four quadrants. Bonaparte had been pleased, and a pleased Bonaparte, John was realizing, was a damn good thing.

The new money in his account was even better. And the avatar Bonaparte had customized was pretty nice; nothing flashy, just a digital riff on his own face, the kind of thing that looked standard until you got up close and realized how delicate and expensive it was.

"It's necessary for you to look professional," Bonaparte had said, "given the nature of my work. I can hardly charge a reasonable price for a true-to-life mod if my own courier looks like a bitmap, now can I?"

"Right," John had said. Bonaparte was kind of weird. He'd done the final smoothing manually, which John hadn't seen before, using a fine programming tool that let him sculpt the avatar like clay. John had watched, not daring to move, as his new boss made fine adjustments to his eyes and lips. Bonaparte's thin lips had moved as he worked, but he hadn't made any sound.

It'd felt different when he touched things, too. "It's more sensitive than most avatars," Bonaparte explained. "You'll find it's not entirely a blessing-- the cheaper items and avatars will feel it-- but you really should have the highest quality."

John had reached out and touched the collar of Bonaparte's shirt. It felt like real fabric; Bonaparte even programmed the warmth of body heat under his fingers.

He got out of the shower and dried off. The hot water helped; he felt pretty human now, not like he'd spent the last seven hours with zero movement or muscle control. The community service would help too, as much as he hated it. He'd have to get something going outside the Stream after it ended, some kind of excuse to go outside once in a while.

Streaming kept your brain half in sleep mode, so at least his day was a little longer. Back before prison, he could make do with a two-hour nap a day; he wasn't any younger now, but he wasn't that old, either. He'd have to try it and see how it rolled.

 

The only problem with grocery shopping, Apollo reflected, was how _good_ everything looked in the store. He sighed and looked down at his list, which now seemed hopelessly short and limited.

"A good meal can be simple," Bonaparte kept telling him, and yeah, that made sense, but _damn_ those mangoes looked good. He could buy them for dessert, or for snacks. Snacks would work. He put half a dozen mangoes into a plastic bag and added them to his basket. If Craig didn't like it, _he_ could start cooking dinner.

He wondered, for a second, if Craig had ever cooked anything in his life, and giggled a little at the thought.

"Hey," a voice said. "Apollo, right?"

Apollo turned. It was Community Service Guy-- John. He was smiling, and he looked a lot better than he had sweating like hell back at the parking garage. "Yeah," he said. "How you doin'?"

"Not bad," John said, pushing his long hair back out of his eyes. "Got the job. Thanks."

Apollo couldn't help but grin. He'd _known_ Bonaparte couldn't say no to him. It wasn't his looks, exactly, though those weren't bad; there was something magnetic about him. "Sweet. You like it?"

"So far. Bonaparte's ... interesting."

"Yeah, he is," Apollo said. "He's teachin' me how to cook."

"You serious?" John looked down into his basket. "He live around here?"

Not a question Apollo wanted to answer. "He's got a whole kitchen sim in the Stream. He's taught me a lot there. He says it helps his programming too, 'cause he can see where things aren't true to life. 'Fantasy worlds are easy, but duplicating reality is the most difficult challenge of all.'"

"You should see the avatar I'm using," John said eagerly. "He's a fucking genius."

"Yeah," Apollo said. "He is. So you like him?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "So far. First day."

"Yeah. You should try his cooking."

"I dunno if he'd go for that."

_He will,_ Apollo thought. "Hey, you could try some tonight if you want-- sort of. I'm gonna make some chicken piccata, you wanna come over?"

John's face held steady while he thought. "Yeah," he said finally, nodding. "What the hell."

 

"You live by yourself?" John said, holding the second bag of groceries as they made their way up the stairs.

"Nah," Apollo said. "I gotta roommate. Boyfriend. Whatever."

John was no stranger to those arrangements. He nodded. "He gonna be around?"

"Maybe," Apollo said, digging keys out of his pocket. "His hours are weird lately. He's cool, though."

"So how do you know Bonaparte, anyway?"

"He and Craig go back," Apollo said as the door opened. "You cook? You can help me chop."

John did, a little, and he didn't mind chopping. Apollo was Asian, probably Chinese, when he slid the sunglasses off, and he was funny and easygoing. In the Stream he worked with Hermes. John'd only been back seven hours and he was already used to seeing Hermes' security signal. He'd just been getting started when John had gotten arrested; now the kid was everywhere. By all accounts, Hermes was a genius, his coding tight and elegant.

Apollo didn't seem like the kind of guy to do tight or elegant, but people were different in the Stream. Outside the Stream, though, Apollo was seriously freewheeling, eyeballing the ingredients as much as measuring them.

"Is this a double batch? It's a lot of food for three."

"I like food. And leftovers. And sometimes Craig brings his partner home."

"Partner?"

"Yeah, he's--" Apollo paused as the key hit the lock. "Here. C'mon, you should say hi."

Craig was a fucking _cop._ A little shorter than John, good-looking, with dyed white-blond hair. And a fucking _cop._

"John Carlson, Craig Nguyen."

"You're bringing home strays again," Craig noted, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

"He's got a job! He works for Bonaparte."

"Ah," Craig said. His face indicated that wasn't a notable improvement. "Did you make enough food? Lin's coming."

Great. Dinner with two cops. John ran down some excuses in his head, but none of them washed, and he was hungry. Craig pretty much ignored him anyway, unbuttoning his uniform shirt and dropping into the apartment's single good chair to read the newspaper.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" John asked.

Apollo just grinned at him. "So when's Lin coming?" he asked Craig, who shrugged his shoulders and shaded his face even further with the paper. "Fine. I'm serving the food when it's done. She's not here, she can eat the leftovers."

"Like she'll care," Craig told the headlines.

 

Lin came just as the rice cooker snapped on to 'warm,' which was when John recognized her. It was far too late to think of an excuse and bail by _then._ She was still short and still cute. Her tits looked a lot bigger when they weren't stuffed under her uniform, too. "This better not be some kind of surprise date," she said suspiciously. "Especially not with _him."_

"No!" Apollo said. "We were just hanging out. Lin, this is John."

"Yeah," she said. "I know. I arrested him."

"Right," Apollo said, determined to avoid any awkwardness. "I made chicken piccata!"

Her face lit up. "Really? Is it good?"

"Dunno," he said. "But it's ready!"

"Awesome," she said. "Nguyen, get up, the food's ready."

Craig muttered something, but he got up to eat anyway.

 

Lin seemed not to hold his conviction against him, something that didn't seem to surprise Apollo or Craig at all. The girl could _eat,_ and so could Apollo; John went from wondering how they'd ever store all the food they'd cooked in Apollo's apartment-sized refrigerator to wondering if there'd be any left at all.

Craig and Lin mostly traded stories about work, which should've been weird, but wasn't. They mostly split duties in and out of the Stream, then met up and compared notes later; John got the impression that no one much cared what they did, which was a little bit weird, but they both seemed to enjoy the freedom.

"So then," Lin said, "he tells me 'I'm in the Stream. You can't touch me here.' And he laughs. Like he's Goldfinger or something."

"Did he have a white fluffy cat?" Apollo asked.

Lin giggled. "Probably. Anyway, he's all untouchable, and I say, 'sure, I can't get you legally. But that doesn't really matter, does it? Because the minute your _partners_ find out about your side deal...."

Craig's face cracked in something like a smile. "And that's why he came in the station wanting to confess to me at three o'clock this afternoon?"

Lin put her finger meaningfully on her nose.

 

"So you've met Yue?"

John looked at Bonaparte in confusion. "Yue?"

"Apollo's...partner, I suppose. Officer Nguyen. He uses 'Yue' here."

"So he _does_ Stream."

"A little," Bonaparte said, "though he complains when he does."

John smirked. "Yeah, I can see that."

The ghost of a smile flickered over his employer's face. "Did the delivery go well?"

"Yeah." It was, all in all, a damn good job. The deliveries were simple and straightforward, for the most part. John was well aware that he was providing a service that wasn't so much _necessary_ as _desired._ Bonaparte used Hermes security, so the software itself was solid as a rock, but people liked having the experience of getting it delivered and installed. All John really did was move it over, set it up, and watch it go. It was a good reintroduction to the Stream, and he liked seeing how the zones had updated. Some crazy girl had created an entire fish zone; he'd had to swim to her door, and her avatar was a dolphin. She'd offered to program him a merman tail, but he'd decided that wasn't his scene. "Hey, can I take tips?"

The hint of a smile disappeared. "Were you offered anything specific?"

"Um, a drink. That's all." Okay, that might have been a lie. But he hadn't _taken_ anything, and that's what mattered.

"No tips," Bonaparte said coldly. "We _are_ professionals."

"Yeah, that's what I figured," John said, trying to keep things casual. "So what about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"You go for drinks?"

Bonaparte stared at him for a moment. It hadn't been _that_ weird a thing to say, had it? They got along, and Bonaparte was pretty, and it wasn't like people cared much about proper employer-employee relations in the Stream. "No," Bonaparte said, pressing his lips together for a moment. "I don't."

"Oh. Okay. Um. Got any other jobs?"

"Not right now." The almost-camaraderie had disappeared. "Aren't you almost at the end of your time?"

"Yeah," John said. "I'll get going."

 

"He doesn't leave the store," Apollo said. "Ever." His eye was fixed on the last stick of teriyaki.

"I'm gonna _eat_ it," John said. "Christ, are you a vulture?"

"Just hungry," Apollo said. "So you like him?"

"I dunno." John picked up his teriyaki. Clearly eating the beef was the only way to keep it safe. "He's pretty cool, most of the time. But then I try to _talk_ to him about something and--" He waved the stick in the air. "'Don't you have to get back to Community Service?'" He took a bite of teriyaki. "It's lame."

Apollo shrugged. "He's kinda weird." He looked hopefully into the container of take-out. "Damn, that's the last of it."

"I might have some chips."

Apollo's eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

John had to stifle a laugh. "You're a walking stomach, asshole."

"Am not!" But Apollo was already up and headed to the kitchen drawer. "You know, your apartment's not that bad."

"I got lucky; the place went co-op back when I was earning decent money." It wasn't much bigger than a closet, but it had a hot plate and a minifridge, and there was enough room to sleep, or to hang out and eat Chinese when Bonaparte didn't have any jobs and Craig was on an all-night stakeout. "You ready?"

Apollo nodded. "Yeah. You're out of chips."

They stretched out together, side by side on the bed, and went into the Stream.

 

"So where you wanna go?" John asked. There were rumors of a new tunnel in Carpathia; that meant vampires and werewolves, which were always good for a laugh. He'd seen a snail shell the size of a small stadium on his last delivery run in Ember, too. And there were always the dinosaurs. Hanging out with dinosaurs never got old.

"Let's start with Bonaparte's," Apollo said. "He promised me another cooking lesson."

John was pretty sure Bonaparte didn't want to see him when there wasn't a job, but it wasn't like he really had anything better to do. "Yeah, okay."

Bonaparte was at his programming desk when they came into the shop. "Ah, Apollo," he said, his mouth raising in an automatic smile. "And Kers, as well."

"You promised me more cooking," Apollo said. "Remember?"

"How on Earth could I forget?" Bonaparte asked, rising from the desk. "I do have other duties, however."

"Can I just go in the kitchen? You have your cookbooks there, right?"

Bonaparte shot John a look; John gave him his best _I had nothing to do with this_ shrug. "What would you like to attempt?" he said finally, pushing his digital glasses up on his nose.

"Cookies!"

Bonaparte sighed. "Fine," he said, and started walking toward the back room. Apollo followed him like an eager puppy. He paused at the door. "Are you coming?" he asked John.

John followed.

 

John'd never been in the back room before; it had three options, office, bedroom and kitchen. Bonaparte selected 'kitchen,' and the room before them shimmered and transformed.

Bonaparte's creations were more real than real life; near-perfect simulations of reality that functioned better than the unreliable shit you had at home. The kitchen would've been a showpiece, if it was out in his shop. It was spacious and beautiful, with gleaming, spotless marble countertops and beautifully turned oak cupboards. Not trendy; classic. Smooth.

Bonaparte fussed around the cupboards, pulling out ingredients and gently reminding Apollo to wash his hands at the gleaming stainless steel sink. It gave John a chance to study him further. His personal avatar was unimpressive at first glance; but then you took a second look and realized how deeply _real_ it was, how easy it was to accept his skin and hair as _real,_ not as another illusion of the Stream. He was good-looking, on the pretty side, but not _too_ good-looking or pretty. John wondered what he looked like outside the Stream, what got him into programming perfection in the first place.

"Is Hermes keeping you busy?" Bonaparte asked, as he washed his own hands.

"You know him," Apollo said. "And the business. It never lets up. Does flour really sift like this?"

John looked over. "Nah," he said. "That looks more like salt."

"That _is_ salt," Bonaparte corrected, an edge of irritation in his voice. "Will you please remember to check the labels on the canisters?"

John laughed. "Do you even know how to read?"

"Of course I do!" Apollo protested hotly. "You're so annoying."

"Yeah, yeah," John said, getting the 'FLOUR' container down from the shelf. "But I can read."

"Well, then, you'll be happy to read the recipe, won't you?" Bonaparte slid a book out from the shelf and opened it in front of John.

"Sure," John said. He _could_ read. He could read really well. He'd just never figured out a way to make any money doing it. "You're supposed to put the wet ingredients together first."

"That's not so much of a concern." Bonaparte opened the refrigerator and produced a full carton of perfect eggs. "What's important is to keep the wet and dry components separate, until-- Apollo, what are you doing?"

"What?" Apollo said, his voice slightly muffled by the fingers in his mouth. "It's not like we're gonna run out."

Bonaparte's sigh was deep. "That's not exactly the point," he said.

Apollo rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"You two done with the comedy act, or should I wait?"

"We're finished," Bonaparte said, raising a perfectly rendered eyebrow for a moment. "Do go on."

"Right. You need baking powder and salt--"

"Those are over here," Apollo said, "by the--" He winced.

"You okay?" John asked.

Apollo nodded and put a hand up to his ear. "Work. Gotta fly, guys. Save me some cookies."

He was gone before either of them could say a thing.

"Huh," John said.

"Emergencies do come up in his business," Bonaparte said.

"Yeah," John said. "Um. Do you wanna finish these?"

Bonaparte looked down at his perfect kitchen counter and the mess of half-finished cookie batter. "He _did_ ask us to save him some...."

They finished in near-silence, stopping only to check the recipe a few times. Bonaparte brought the cookie sheets and a spoon out, and they both filled the sheets with cookie batter that was almost as sticky and sweet as the real stuff.

"You shouldn't eat the batter," Bonaparte chided.

"Can't get salmonella," John said, dropping the licked-clean spoon into the sink. "Can't even gain weight."

"Still," Bonaparte said. He dropped his own dirty utensils into the sink, his hand brushing John's hip aside as he passed.

John put the first racks into the professionally-sized oven and thought about exactly where Bonaparte's fingers had landed. "How long do these take?"

"Eh," Bonaparte said. "Without Apollo here to teach, I'm tempted to turn the knob to 'instant.'"

"There's nothing wrong with a little instant gratification," John said, turning the knob and grinning at him. "Why the hell else do you bother Streaming?"

"Why else indeed," Bonaparte noted, his voice just a little strained. "At any rate, I'm glad there are no dishes to clean." He _had_ used the automatic setting on the sink; the programming had simply reconstituted clean dishes back in the cupboards.

John opened the oven and put his hand on the tray-- it was _hot._ "Shit!" His hand was blistering even as he pulled it away. "What the hell are you doing, programming things to--"

"Realism has a high value," Bonaparte said, taking John's wrist and surveying the burn. "And there are those with esoteric tastes. Hold still."

"It hurts like a _motherfucker--"_

"Hold _still,"_ Bonaparte snapped, and tightened his grip.

"Hey, that hu--" John stopped as a white glow came from Bonaparte's fingers. The pain stopped immediately, and the blisters began to fade. "How are you doing that?"

"I made the damage, didn't I?" Bonaparte looked up. "I can undo it as well. Good programming, like the best surgery, is reversible."

"You a doctor?"

Bonaparte's mouth became a tight line. "My sister was. She died some years ago."

"Oh," John said. "Sorry." Bonaparte still had his wrist in a grip that was just short of uncomfortable. His fingers were healed, though; smooth as a baby's butt. You never got calluses in the Stream. Bonaparte stroked his fingers carefully over the spot where the burn had been.

Directly propositioning the boss, John speculated, was probably also against the rules. Too bad, really. Sex in the Stream wasn't as good as sex on the outside, but Bonaparte was hot, and John kept finding himself liking the guy, despite all the weird.

Hell, the way Bonaparte programmed, maybe sex in the Stream _would_ be as good as sex on the outside.

Bonaparte was still touching him. Maybe that was a good sign. Or maybe he was just off in Dead Sister Land. Hard to say.

He let go of John's wrist after a moment, and reached for the tray. "Well," he said. "We should at least try the cookies, shouldn't we?"

John reached for one--

And fell--

Back. Back on the bed, back in reality. _Shit._ It was some kind of an emergency, power failure, fire-- you never just _got pulled out--_

Craig Nguyen was standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes focused enough to melt steel. "Get up, and get that fucking needle out of your arm," he said. _"Now."_

"We weren't--" John said, preparing the standard I Didn't Fuck Your Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Spouse speech, but Apollo interrupted him.

"No," he said. "I gotta go back in. Hermes needs me."

"Not until we know what's going on," Craig said. John realized he might as well have not been there at all. "Get out. _Now._ Hermes can make it; I don't know if you can."

"Shit," Apollo said, and slid the needle out of his arm. "I can't just leave him."

Craig shook his head. "Save yourself first, dumbass."

Apollo nodded.

John pulled the needle out of his own arm. "What the fuck is going on?" That question led to others. "How the hell did you get into my apartment? Did you break the door down? Because--"

"I picked the lock, genius." Craig walked over to his refrigerator. "Both of you clean up and I'll tell you what's going on." He took out John's last beer, opened it, and took a long drink. "Lin's on her way."

"What happened?" Apollo asked, getting off the bed and stretching.

"Two more," Craig said. "We're up to five."

_"Shit."_

"It's the hacker we've been looking for," Apollo asked. "Isn't it?"

"I think so," Craig said.

It was like they were talking in code. "Do either of you assholes want to tell me what's going on?"

Craig looked at John like he was noticing him for the first time. "Spree killings."

"What about them?"

"They're all Streamers," Apollo said. "They all got hacked. And then two weeks later, they're off in meatspace, killing anything they can get to."

"The first two hit the papers." Craig had his PDA open and was dicking around with it. "The third one they locked in the bathroom before he could do much damage. And then two more today." He snapped the PalmPilot closed. "And of course, Lin and I are the only cops in the city who touch the Stream, so this steaming pile of shit's gotten dropped in our laps."

Apollo nodded. "Hermes noticed the connection right away. He's been trying to figure out what's going on, and stop it from happening again. I should be in there helping him," he added, with a glare at Craig.

"Once I know you're insulated from it," Craig snapped. "Not a minute before that."

"You're not my mother."

"I'm still--"

"Stop it," John said. "Both of you. Craig's probably right. What about Bonaparte?"

They both gave him blank looks. "What about Bonaparte?" Craig asked.

"Shouldn't we warn him, too?"

"Him and Hermes," Apollo said, darting for the bathroom. "I gotta get my underwear back on."

"Hey, wait--" but it was too late. The door was shut, and John was stuck with a diaper full of piss, staring at Craig. "God_damn_ it."

"I'm not looking forward to this any more than you are." Craig sucked down more of his-- of _John's_ beer.

"Should you be drinking on the job?"

"Fuck off," Craig said, and sat down at John's computer.

 

When John got out of the can, Apollo was on the bed, scowling at his laptop. "Hermes isn't emailing back."

"What about Bonaparte?" Craig was still settled at John's computer.

"He's checking his data. We're gonna have to go back in, Craig. I can't leave Hermes there."

"There's no saying he's in there, is there?" John frowned. "I mean, he could've pulled out like we did."

Craig and Apollo both turned around just enough to give him funny looks.

"Hermes can take care of himself," Craig said.

Apollo gave him a look that would've melted the rust off his truck.

Craig rubbed his temples. "Let's at least see what Bonaparte says."

"We're going to have to go in," Apollo said, curling up on the chair. "It's the only way. You _know_ what this is. You remember--"

"Yeah." Craig got up from John's computer and walked around the room. He took his empty beer bottle and expertly tossed it into the trash can John kept for recycling. Apollo winced a little at the crash.

John was getting annoyed; hell, he'd been annoyed since he got pulled out of the Stream. "Any time you guys want to clue me in, feel free."

"We think they're pulling a specific behavior pattern," Craig said. "A spree killer, about two years ago."

"Why him?"

"Because he's in the Stream." Apollo said. "He uploaded before he died."

"A ghost?" John frowned and dropped next to Apollo. "I didn't think those existed."

"They do," Craig said. "You're working for one."

"Funny," John said.

"He's the spree killer," Craig said. "And I'm not joking."

John's stomach dropped. Still, there was something oddly _right_ about it; all those weird looks Craig and Apollo got, Bonaparte's oddness.... "You can't know that."

"Sure I know that." Craig was looking straight at him. "I shot him."

 

"You shouldn't be here," Bonaparte told him when he walked into the shop.

"Nice to see you too," John said. "Look, Yue and Apollo gave me this programmy thing, they think it'll work. I told them they should make it look like a tinfoil hat, but they told me that wasn't funny."

"They may have been correct," Bonaparte said, but he was smiling. "Why did they send you?"

"I don't have many logged hours yet. All the victims-- killers-- um, shooters had been in for years straight." They'd been the sallow-skinned caricatures that John swore he wouldn't become.

"That sounds wise. I suppose I should look at the programming?"

"Yeah, that's what they want." John dipped his head down. "Take a look."

"I wish I had a better idea of what I was looking for," Bonaparte said, stroking his hands across John's digital hair while he examined the programming, which was a bit like having your head cracked gently open for someone else to peek inside. But it was Bonaparte doing it, so it was okay.

John found himself wondering just how many people Bonaparte had killed.

"It should work," Bonaparte said finally, "at least for a time. The programming seems to have gotten in during routine maintenance and upgrades, so if we prevent those, and take additional steps...."

"Yeah," John said. "I wish they could get to Hermes."

"I fear," Bonaparte said, "that whoever's been responsible for this...violence is planning on neutralizing any threats. Hermes is well-known as the most reliable source of security, so attacking him first--"

"Scares the shit out of anyone else."

"Precisely." Bonaparte lifted his hands, and John felt his head pulling back together. "And takes away a formidable threat to the plan, whatever it is."

"Makes sense," John said, lifting his head up to meet Bonaparte's face. It was weird, looking at him without wondering what he was like out of the Stream. This was all he was.

"You don't have to help them, you know," Bonaparte said, reaching out to brush a tendril of hair back from John's face. "I'd give you a good reference, if you want another job."

"Yeah," John said. "I know." But he wanted to, for reasons he probably wouldn't ever understand. And he wanted to keep seeing Bonaparte, for reasons he was afraid he _did_ understand.

"All right," Bonaparte said. "You know where Hermes is?"

"Yeah," John said. "Big building in Techville."

"We're going to try breaking in," Bonaparte said. "If you'd like."

John smiled. "Yeah," he said. "What the hell." He was all out of beer back in the apartment anyway.

 

"Wait," John said. "The fuck is this?"

"What?" Bonaparte asked. He gave John the fakest smile he'd ever seen; no small achievement, considering John had lived with Radio.

"It's a Jeep."

"Of course."

_No one_ used normal vehicles in the Stream. Not men, not women, not children, not cats. Usually people used pod transportation, but once in a while you'd get some asshole who decided he wanted to show off his newly-designed rocketship, or a tricked-out variation on Doc's DeLorean time machine. This was just a Jeep, though. A little beat-up, plain Army green, no bells, whistles or sparkles. "Why do you have a Jeep?"

"It provides an extra level of security while transferring data," Bonaparte said, as though it were the most reasonable explanation in the world. "Hermes and I worked on it together."

John reached out and touched the metal. The engine block was warm. "Huh."

The car lurched forward and landed squarely on John's foot. John screamed, and the car rolled back.

Bonaparte reached down and put a hand over John's shoe. The glow came from his hand again, and the pain lessened immediately. "He doesn't like to be touched without permission," he explained, as the pain resolved and disappeared completely. "I apologize; I should have warned you."

"He? I thought cars were usually 'shes.'"

"He was my cat, actually," Bonaparte said, a bit sheepishly. "They put him to sleep ... after."

_After,_ huh. "So ... that's how you met Yue, huh."

Bonaparte nodded. "A single shot to the chest. He's very professional."

John had absolutely no idea how to answer that, so he settled for nodding. To his great relief, Craig and Apollo materialized just behind the vehicle. While Bonaparte had modded John's protective software into a necklace and Craig's into a badge, Apollo had kept it in its crown form. As absurd as it was, it suited him. "We ready to go?" he asked, vaulting one-handed into the Jeep. "Hey, Whitey." The Jeep's engine revved a bit in greeting.

"I suppose we are," Bonaparte said, as Craig walked silently to the Jeep and slunk into the passenger seat. "Go ahead and get in, John."

"You sure?" John eyed the Jeep with suspicion. The passenger door nearest him opened.

"C'mon," Apollo said. "Get in."

"Yeah," John said, "okay." He got in. The Jeep's door slammed just a second too quickly behind him. "Off to the flashing lights of Techville, huh?"

"You got it," Apollo said. "Let's go save the Stream."


End file.
